


gap in the clouds

by jrangel



Category: Short Term 12 (2013), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Established Relationship, Foster Care, Group Homes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Poe Dameron Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-03-22 11:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jrangel/pseuds/jrangel
Summary: Hux is the young supervisor of Short Term 12, a group home for troubled children and teenagers. He lives with his long-term boyfriend and coworker, Poe, but finds it difficult to open up to him emotionally.





	1. Now

 

Poe stifles a yawn in the crook of his elbow.

The young guy, new staff, Finn, stammers nervously in front of him outside of the dormitory, fingers fiddling with the end of a too long tie that looks like it was lifted from the bargain bin at a second hand shop as he struggles to make small talk. He talks about his training after a bit, and Poe nods along good-naturedly as he does. He gets it, the nerves that settle in when you’re in a new place, with new people, so he lets the kid go, lets him work it out of his system while he still can.

Poe drains the last of his coffee and chucks his cup into the nearby bin. 

He starts to dig into his pockets. “Yeah, on my first day I forgot everything they taught me in those classes.”

The kid, Finn, brightens. “Really?”

Poe brandishes a pack of cigarettes and jerks his head up. “Yeah. I mean, day one is always a little tough no matter how the training goes, there’s— there’s always room for something that’s just totally unpredictable.”

He leans back against the wall and shakes a cigarette loose, “Oh, I’ve got a pretty good story for you if you’re ready for it.”

He sticks the end between his teeth and goes to light the tip when he sees Rey sneak out from the rec room and toward their table. End lit, Poe tilts his head at her in greeting and exhales.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey.”

He uses the hand holding his cigarette to gesture between her and the newbie. “Did you guys meet?”

Newbie— Finn, Poe reminds himself, shakes his head. “No.”

“Hi.” Rey chirps, chipper despite the night shift she’s just pulled.

“Hey.” Finn returns nervously. He fiddles with the cuff of the overly formal button up he’s wearing and struggles to maintain eye contact.

“Rey,” she offers graciously after a moment.

“Finn.” He stammers back.

Poe tips his head back and blows smoke up to the sky. “Okay, listen up, story time.” He snaps his fingers at them a couple of times to make sure he’s got their attention. “So it’s like my first week on the job and I’m at gate duty, right?”

Finn’s quirks an eyebrow, “What’s that?”

He’s about to answer when a voice coming from behind him does so for him.

“If a kid wants to leave, legally we can’t stop them. So we put someone at the gate to try and talk them out of it.”

Poe peeks over his shoulder and smiles wide. “Whoa, you got here quick.”

The other man’s gaze shies away from him and all he’s offered back is a mild, grunted affirmative.

“Finn, this is Hux.” Poe does some pointing. “He’s your new boss.”

“Hey.” Finn shuffles forward and offers a hand, which is politely received. “Nice to meet you.”

Watching the exchange, Poe grins as Hux shakes the new recruit’s hand with a firm flick of his wrist while he gives Finn a critical once over.

“I would lose the tie if I were you.” Hux advises bluntly, releasing Finn’s hand after a moment. “And if you’re listening to a story of Poe’s, understand that there’s very little reality in it.”

“Hey, now.” Poe balks, and then adds, “I brought you coffee by the way.”

With a soft hum in response, Hux gravitates toward the table on which Rey has perched, and claims the lone coffee from its surface before sitting beside her.

She leans toward him once he’s sat, one of the few people Hux will allow such closeness, passing him the communication binder.

“Night shift was pretty mellow,” Rey murmurs as Hux pours over the night log with a singular focus, taking a sip from his cup.

With everyone settled, Poe continues. “Okay, so Hux, my wonderful new boss at the time, he leaves me at gate duty for like three hours without a bathroom break. And I’m dying, I’ve got like four of those tall boy iced teas working through my insides and I need to go.”

Rey snorts.

“So this kid, 16 years old, this big intimidating dude, he’s like a foot taller than me. He walks up and he just cruises out the gate. It’s my second day, and I don’t know what the hell is going on. But Hux, he’s standing right there, and he just lets it happen.”

Now, Hux looks up from the binder, making a low noise of dissent. “What I saw was Poe just sitting there and Baze smiling at me from the opposite side of the gate because he knows that we can’t touch him.”

“Why not?” Finn asks, frowning slightly.

Hux’s mouth twists. “Once they’re a foot outside the gate, we can’t touch them.”

Poe takes another drag from his cigarette. “So Hux tells me to follow him, so I do for hours, just walking eight feet behind him. Eventually he gets on this bus, so I get on the bus too. And at this point I can’t think of anything but getting to a kriffin’ toilet. So I make up my mind, fuck this— I’ve got to get off at the next stop or I’m going to wet myself in front of all these people. And exactly as I make this decision, Baze leans his big-ass head to me across the aisle, and he says, really calm, ‘I’m getting off at the next stop, and if you do to, I’m going to rip your fuckin’ balls off and feed them to you.”

Finn lets out a low whistle. “Holy shit.”

“Remember what I said.” Hux interjects.

“Hey, this part is true. I was there.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you sure?”

Poe waves a dismissive hand at the other man. “So the bus stops. He gets off. I go over to the door, but he’s just standing there on the sidewalk like 10 feet away, staring at me, waiting. What can I do? I have no other choice. So I step off the bus. And the second that my feet touch the ground, it is like a water balloon bursts inside me and piss just comes pouring down my legs.”

Rey cackles loudly as Finn covers his giggles behind a well-placed hand.

“So I’m just standing there, piss gushing down my thighs. I ruined my fuckin’ favorite Nikes. And Baze is just there, doubled over, losing it. And he’s laughing so hard. I’ve never seen anything like—”

An alarm sounds. Poe stops speaking.

He can hear a heavy door slam open behind him and the high-pitched yells of a familiar voice.

Poe flicks his cigarette suddenly, eyes darting over his shoulder. “Here we go, Finn.”

Finn’s gaps at him. “Wait, what?”

“Come on, Finn!” Hux shouts, already running toward the chaos.

Rey makes a scooting motion with her hands. “Go.”

Poe’s losing ground every second he waits, so he leaves Finn, and sets off behind Hux, tearing across the lawn after the small boy darting across the grass.

“BB!” Poe calls out to him. “BB!”

Hux is all long limbs and lean muscle, plus he gave up on smokes almost a month after Poe picked up the habit, so he reaches BB before Poe can even get within arms length.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” Hux takes the boy to the ground as gently as he can and hushes his frantic outcry with his arms firmly looped around him, Poe flanking around the back. 

“Whoa, I got him.” Hux reassures him as Poe loops his own arm around BB’s for insurance, dropping beside them on the lawn.

“Let go, you kriffin’ perverts!” BB screams, thrashing in their hold, scrawny shoulders knocking against their ribs.

“Okay.” Hux grits his teeth and keeps his hold firm.

“Finn, grab his feet, please.” Poe requests calmly, albeit a little out of breath, once the other man finally joins them. “Just going to sit down here in the grass for a while until you deescalate.”

The boy kicks out suddenly and Finn looks panicked as he keeps BB’s legs from making impact. “Deescalate your face, you scruffy-looking, nerf herder!”

Poe’s still working on getting his heartbeat down, wrinkles his nose in response. “I’m not quite sure what you mean by that.”

On the other side of him, Hux sighs, and falls into his therapy voice, keeping his tone calm and measured. “You know the drill, BB. Just let it pass.” 

They stay there on the ground for another solid minute, the sound of heavy breathing filling the silence. The struggle bleeds from BB slowly and Poe feels the small body go limp against him, the boy leaning into him as though suddenly drained and lethargic.

“You all right, buddy?” Poe asks. He checks on him, and then cranes his neck as though evaluating the distance back to the dorms. Teases, “Whoa, you got pretty far that time. I think it’s a new record.”

Poe catches Finn’s eye and grins, knowing but not caring that he probably looks wild, cheeks rosy and curls askew, BB’s head crammed into his side as the kid slumps over. Poe doesn’t mind being used as a pillow.

“So anyway, after all that Baze ends up coming back with me, but only because he’s so excited to tell everyone in our unit that I pissed my pants. And he does. He tells everyone.”

“You heard that story right, BB?” Hux asks softly, running his free hand gently through BB’s hair, fingers catching on the blond strands.

Between them, BB nods tiredly. “Yeah.”

“How are your guys doing over there?” Rey calls across the lawn.

Poe pumps a thumb up into the air. “Fantastic!”

“How are you feeling, BB? You got it all out?” Hux asks, still incredibly soft, his words low and unhurried. “You want to go take a nap?” When BB nods, Hux hums pleasantly. “All right, let’s get you up.”

“Up we go, bud.” Poe agrees, pushing himself to his feet.

The two of them flank BB’s sides, protective and attentive as they take their first steps back towards the dormitory.

“All right, I’ll see you back at the office.” Hux calls back to Finn, seeming to only just remember that the newbie was there.

Poe sends him a friendly wave too. “Welcome to Short Term 12, man.”

He can hear Finn’s flustered “all right” as they begin their trek back across the lawn. Poe finds Finn’s confusion endearing and hilarious in equal parts, and inhaling sharply through his nose, Poe laughs, can’t help it as it bubbles out of him.

“This guy’s sure been eating Wheaties in the morning.” He teases BB again, with the hopes that the feeling’s contagious. “Have you ever thought about the Olympics, BB? Running track?”

Beside him, Hux hides a grin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love two very different movies and I smushed them together. Watching Short Term 12 again I pictured Hux standing in for the place of Grace and Poe for Mason and it all sort of clicked in my head. This story will touch on difficult subject matter, so if that's not something you want to interact with I would pass on this one.


	2. Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tells him, eyes trained on her laptop screen, that he’s going to live with his father. 
> 
> He’s a good guy, she tells him as her nails clack along the keyboard.
> 
> She’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING AHEAD: Nothing explicit, but child abuse is alluded to and referred to. Additionally, self-harm is present in this chapter, avoid if triggering.
> 
> Also, just for context, Hux is like 13 years old at the start of this chapter. And there will be time jumps between present day and past Hux from here on out.

 

Hardly anyone comes to the funeral.

A couple of aunts he can’t account for. An uncle from out of town. 

His mother never mentioned these people and Armitage shrinks back, wilts at their touch. Maneuvers around and dodges past them to get a seat at the front.

Clustered in the pews near the back, respectful in their distance, there are the women from the kitchen where she worked. They’re not family, not hers by blood, but as good as. Armitage casts glances back at them, recognizes a few of their faces although he can’t remember their names. 

He itches for the feeling of his mother’s hand in his, the comfort it once gave him. Sits with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap instead. 

He thinks how they had to buy him a black suit just for this, and digs blunt nails into his palms until the flesh reddens.

He’s teetering again. He feels like the breath before the scream.

He sneaks another look.

Behind him, the women remain huddled together, trading tissues and hushed words; Armitage wishes he were sitting with them instead. 

Until afterward, when the tears come and won’t stop, and every adult in the room seems to look at him like he’s something small and broken. Then he doesn’t know where he wants to be except not here. He’d rather be anywhere else. Rather be anyone, anywhere else. 

But he’s not, he’s him and he’s here.

They’ve assigned him a social worker and she comes to collect him eventually, spares the others from the pitiful sight of his tears. 

She tells him, eyes trained on her laptop screen, that he’s going to live with his father. 

Her attention goes to her phone, and then once again to her computer.

It’s like he’s not even there.

He’s a good guy, she tells him as her nails clack along the keyboard.

She’s wrong.

 

\---

 

It’s been two years since he’s last seen her.

She’s the same as she was, distracted, bordering on neglectful as she settles down in front of him, hiding behind her screen. He isn’t the same as when she left him. He couldn’t be more different.

She asks him if there is anything he’d like to take with him from his father’s house, and Armitage shakes his head. Even the notion of producing language right now feels exhausting.

She nods, pausing for a moment to type something onto her keyboard, and for a brief moment all Armitage can hear is the clacking of keys and the nasal whistle of air passing through her nose as she breathes.

She asks Armitage if there were anyone he’d like to contact.

He shakes his head again.

More nodding, more clacking.

And then she speaks.

There are blanks filled in, a dispassionate drone of information that follows, but Armitage knows without having to hear her words what kind of man his father is and the mistakes that have been made. He knows what happens to kids with nowhere else to go, and doesn’t need reminding. He drags bitten nails across skin and listens anyway.

He’s fifteen and feels a weariness that seems impossible and untenable for his age. 

She sends him away and he’s packed into some long-term care facility, with what feels like hundreds of other maladjusted boys and girls, his father miles and a jail cell away. 

The distance matters very little though, because his father still manages to destroy his mood like he never left, stalks through every part of Armitage’s head, includes himself in every one of his thoughts. There are monsters around every corner and they all wear his father’s face. Even here, he’s haunted.

The other residents luxuriate in his paranoia, cut him down with predatory precision; sharp-tongued, big-bodied boys, who shove him into hallway walls, and push him into the dirt. Armitage lets them, sees his father staring back at him through their eyes, and feels himself fold without thinking. There’s something undeniably familiar about it, and it feels natural to negate the safety of his body, muscle memory to grit his teeth against the pain, procedure to let his anger die unexpressed in his throat.

Some things take extraordinary lengths to unlearn and he’s not ready.

Eventually, a caregiver notices.

And incredibly, she does something about it.

Bold brown eyes and hair pulled tight in a low textured knot, she corrals him into her office one day after catching sight of the kaleidoscope of purple spanning the length of his bicep. She prods at the damage and frowns when Armitage can’t suppress the hiss of discomfort that follows. Her eyes dart to his face and her frown deepens.

“Someone’s messing with you,” she murmurs. There’s no hint of a question in her tone. Her lips purse and Armitage gets the distinct impression that she’s searching for something.

He says nothing for a moment, fidgets in his chair, and then asks if he can leave.

“Not yet.” She says. She flits her gaze over to her desk for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I’ve read your file.”

There’s an implication there that that doesn’t settle well with him. 

“You think you know me?” He says.

Her mouth slants into something that’s not quite a smile, but could be mistaken as such if this were any other conversation.

“I think you know that a bad thing can always get worse.”

Armitage does. He struggles to smooth his own expression into something less telling, knowing all the while it’s a fruitless effort.

“Here’s the thing,” she continues, “I’ve seen kids like you before, and they fall into the same patterns here that failed them out there.” 

She does this thing with her hand; gestures at the whole of him, like all that he is can be encapsulated in the line of air she’s drawn. “They don’t claim their space,” she stresses. “And they forget how to ask for help— how to recognize that they even need it. So the bad thing gets worse and everything gets just a little bit harder.”

And for a moment, an expression crosses her face, and Armitage wonders what she possibly has to be sad about, and then she rolls forward in her chair and reaches for his arm, just like before. And like before, Armitage forces his body into stillness, lets the caregiver take his arm in her hand, where she cradles it, tames his own expression into blankness.

“Look, I know you can’t see it yet, how it could be, but this—” She glances at the area on his arm, right above where his elbow bends, ugly and glaring against his pale skin. “This is where it starts. Reclaiming your space and your voice are the first steps. Do you understand?” 

For a second, she looks at him with hope, eyes searching his. “Everything else will follow.” She promises.

But Armitage can’t hold her gaze, let alone respond. He doesn’t understand.

“I’d like to go now,” he says, terse, almost inaudible.

Somewhere in front of him there’s a defeated sigh, “Okay,” he feels a chill from where her touch used to be. “I guess you know where to find me.” 

Her dismissal secured, Armitage stands quickly.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Polite and respectful. Always so.

“Sloane.” She corrects him before he can disappear. She catches his eye one last time, gives him a look. “You can call me Sloane.”

Armitage doesn’t. He turns and he leaves.

But he carries her words with him.

They nag for his attention, call for him at the most inopportune times of the night. 

He lies in bed, stares at the ceiling, and wonders over those words.

His mind ticks and ticks and ticks.

Armitage thinks of his body, and how it hasn’t been his own in quite some time. 

He taps fingers that are not his against skin he hardly feels, watches a chest rise and fall, and wonders if his empty shell would echo if somebody hit it hard enough. He remembers how there was once life here, something made of something more.

He thinks it’s strange how he could lose something that was still right here. How a barrier could go up seemingly without his permission, and trap him on the other side, casting him out. 

His father must have done that.

Beat him hard enough, carved into his spirit deep enough until he had no choice but to flee.

He feels something like anger smolder low within his gut at the thought, chases that sensation down, holds onto it, and stokes it carefully.

It catches.

Fire fills the empty places. It scorches through him, sets his nerves alit, and it’s like coming to after a deep sleep. 

Air fills his lungs, and the flames flicker.

Armitage presses a hand to his throat and he feels the warmth. His breath catches, his mind reels.

He can feel his body again.

This realization elates as much as it brings about with it its own concerns. After all, life is only made harder when you’ve got something to lose.

His father isn’t here, he reminds himself. He needs to remind himself of that every now and again. But there are others, and it’s them that make his thoughts tick away in distraction now.

He needs to let them know they can’t hurt him anymore. Concludes that the best way to do that is to make them think he can’t be hurt.

Reclaim your space, is what Sloane had said. He’ll start there.

So, he reaches inward and pulls at the heat surging through his pulse until it clings around him like a veil, keeping him centered, helping him separate the rest out. 

And when they come for him next, he’s ready, and the boys don’t expect the fist to their gut, the hand twisted in grease shined hair. Armitage doesn’t hold back, wants the message to be clear the first time through. 

He doesn’t want to have to repeat himself.

He’s clutching brown curls ripped free from the root between white-knuckled fingers as he’s torn away from the boy on the floor. He holds his fist out as he’s dragged away and lets the strands drop loosely to the ground.

He won’t be an easy target anymore.

Not ever again.

 

\---

 

“This—” Sloane begins, pressing an ice pack gracelessly to his chin, “is not what I meant.”

Armitage hisses, jerking his head away. It’s not the same for her, he realizes, she can’t understand that the bruise on his jaw is more than worth the fire that now fills his gut.

Snatching the pack from her fingers, he snaps at her in a biting tone he’s never used before in his life, says, “It would do you well to say what you mean in future then,” and lets his mouth twist into something ugly and uninviting.

Complacence is for the boy in her file, Armitage thinks. 

Never again, his mind seethes in agreement.

Above him, Sloane drags a hand over her eyes and sighs.

 

\---

 

His social worker visits him, eyes his still healing lip and his scuffed up sneakers, before telling him that everything is going to be okay.

But it isn’t okay, because after that, people come, solemn-faced grown ups in suits that have hushed conversations while he sits silently across the table from them. 

They tell Armitage they’ll need him to testify.

They tell him there will be a trial, and a judge, and a jury.

They want him to go stand in front of all of them and detail all the ways in which his father consumed, invaded, and spat him out. They want him to unveil his shame and put it up on display where he can’t ignore it, and that’s terrifying, but what’s worse is the memory of hands gripping him too tight, pulling him about like a doll on strings, and the stuttered feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ that still echoes through him when he least expects it. 

Sloane offers to drive him to the courthouse.

He gets dressed in the same black suit he buried his mother in, and thinks he might throw up.

It’s during the walk inside that Armitage reaches for the fire, hopes desperately that it’ll shield him from the worst of this, but when he pulls he goes suddenly cold. All he can find is fear.

His father isn’t there. They told him he wouldn’t be, he tells himself this too. But he can’t convince his body of that truth. Can’t will it into stillness.

All he can really focus on is the faint thrum of _unsafe unsafe unsafe_ that’s slowly getting louder and louder in the back of his mind. 

In the end, most of the proceedings are a blur. They don’t make him stay until the end, and so he leaves. Feels like a coward for running, but that doesn’t slow the pace of his steps or the thundering of his heart.

Sloane drives him back to the facility, and they sit in silence the entire way.

When they get back, he goes straight to his room.

He closes his door.

 

\---

 

At some point he must drift to sleep because he finds himself in a room he doesn’t recognize. He gets the distinct impression that he cannot leave.

He hears footsteps.

He wants to flee but his body doesn’t move until something grabs his arm with crushing strength, yanking him backward, pulling him along far too fast for Armitage to keep up. He struggles to get his legs back under him and the grip on his arm never falters and only pulls him further. 

He’s shoved roughly onto something soft, a bed and it doesn’t hurt, not really, but he nearly bounces right back off with the force at which he’s thrown, before catching himself.

“S-sorry,” he stutters out, quickly shuffling back onto the mattress.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he hears a disgusted noise above him. 

Father doesn’t like it when he cries.

He does his best to stop, tries to school his voice into steadiness like he’s practiced, but his father takes a step towards the bed and that only increases Armitage’s panic. His father grabs his face roughly and yanks him closer, ignoring the squeak Armitage lets out.

“You told.” He hisses. His voice is impossibly loud, it booms like a clap of thunder, and reverberates in his head, rattles his bones.

Armitage remembers.

_If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you._

_I’ll kill you._

_I’ll kill you._

_I’ll—_

Armitage jerks awake with a whimper dying in his throat.

Armitage blinks, heart racing, and realizes that his eyes are overly wet, even if he can’t feel the tears on his face. He drags a hand across the mess and waits for the fear that follows, that miserable feeling that comes on nights when he remembers. But he doesn’t feel sad necessarily, just numb, and in it’s own way, it’s infinitely worse, because he can’t feel it— _can’t feel his body_.

His blankets have twisted around his legs and Armitage bends in half to claw at the tangle of sheets, shoving them to the floor. Free from restraints, Armitage stumbles out of bed, tripping over his own feet as he throws himself into the darkened hallway, making his way to the bathroom on legs that act as though they’re ready to buckle.

He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert the night staff of his presence. He wants to be alone.

He drops to his knees in the nearest stall and retches into the porcelain bowl, knows his body convulses with each dry heave even though the actual sensation is muted and far away. Spit clings to his lip as he lifts his head, stomach settling, and he stares ahead, despondent. 

Was this it, Armitage wonders eyes glazing over. 

Was this the only way things could ever go, the years leading him down a corridor to a room where this inevitable emptiness would finally claim him for good?

Sliding from his knees, Armitage slumps against stall divider and reaches for the fire again, reaches for the chill, for anything. But there’s nothing.

His foot darts out, weakly kicks against the tiled wall, and Armitage feels _nothing_.

He does, however, hear a crunch.

The building is old, he reasons, eyes falling onto the shard of tile that comes loose with the impact of his heel against the wall. He didn’t even kick it that hard.

Bending in the middle, Armitage takes the shard between his fingers and studies it. It’s not much. Someone, a plumber maybe, must have bumped the wall with a heavy tool or something once upon a time, and this little shard had stayed in place, fractured but undisturbed for quite some time.

Now Armitage holds it and thinks.

He tests the pointed end with a finger, presses down, and is amazed that when his finger comes away, it’s wet. 

A flash of hurt. A peek of red.

There’s immediacy to the pain, and it’s demanding, it’s insistent. _It’s his._

He doesn’t know why he did that.

The hand holding the fractured tile drops to the floor. 

He feels himself vibrating, can’t distinguish whether it’s from anxiety or anticipation. Pulls his knees up, folds his legs to his chest and tries to hold himself in, convinced he might shake apart.

When the tremors pass, he tries again. This time he doesn’t look.

The pain burns bright behind closed eyes, and Armitage gasps, overwhelmed.

He gives in eventually and slits his eyes downward; watches thick red dribble around his ankle and soak into the cotton of his sock. The cut isn’t so deep, but blood still beads up along the angry looking line; it still trails along his heel.

There’s a knock on the door, but Armitage doesn’t hear anything beyond the pulse in his ear.

His hand is steady and he moves with surgeon like precision as he drags the shard across his ankle a second time.

Then, all at once, there’s someone beside him on the floor, a hand on his wrist, and wide disbelieving eyes focused on him.

“I need help in here!”

The man shouts, squeezes his bones warningly until the tile drops loose from his fingers.

The sound of footfall fills the hallway.

Then Armitage sees her, and for a moment, Sloane’s expression is one of devastation. But she tucks it away, hides herself behind a furrowed brow as she comes to kneel on the tile.

Immediately, her eyes go to the blood. She has to force her gaze away.

“We need the med kit,” she says shortly. She holds her hand out and the man wordlessly deposits the ceramic shard onto her palm. Sloane takes a strip of toilet paper and wraps the tile a couple of times over, slips it into her pocket, and nods her head toward Armitage. “I’ll stay with him.”

The man nods jerkily, pushing himself off the bathroom floor before disappearing back into the hallway.

And then they’re alone.

The silence is loud between them. Armitage inhales and the air becomes heavy in his lungs. It weighs on him.

“Does this go in the file too?” He almost spits. Almost. The words don’t want to come out the way he wills them to. His voice is weak.

Sloane laughs softly, high-pitched and unhappy. 

“Yeah,” she says, and her eyes shine when she looks at him, “I think so.”

 

\---

 

They fix the tile in the bathroom. Sloane goes around that night, traces her fingers along every edge, presses and tests the resolve of each baby blue square.

He heals. His leg scars. Leaves behind pink highlights of gnarled skin around his ankle.

He can’t close his door anymore.

They tell him they’re finding him a roommate 

 

\---

 

Life goes on, as it has the tendency to do. 

And it isn’t better or worse, but it’s lonely.

He’s forced to negotiate vast expanses of uninterrupted time, and he does so mostly on his own. He doesn’t get visitors. He doesn’t get phone calls. 

Sloane tries, god she tries. She feels responsible. Armitage wishes she wouldn’t.

For her, he tries to seem busy. He spends time outside.

It’s late in the afternoon when Armitage enters the yard to the bloodthirsty chanting of his peers.

Curious, he seeks the chaos out.

Across the pitch is a gathering of bodies, the same long-legged and imposing shadows that greeted him on his own arrival, but now he watches, as though from behind a glass barrier, a bystander to this cycle they all seem doomed to repeat. 

Armitage presses closer.

The boy at the center is smaller than the others, and pretty in a way that sets him immediately apart, dark wavy curls framing a strong jaw, long lashes, and soulful doe eyes. Tears spill down the boy’s face in this unrestrained sort of way that Armitage thinks speaks of softness, the kind he hasn’t been able relate to in a while. But the snarl twisting his features isn’t that, it’s something else, something pained and defiant.

Armitage sees this boy’s grief and can’t help the sneer curling his own lip, the beginnings of disgust cresting and ebbing in his chest. His father creeps up on him like this sometimes, and he has to remind himself that there’s no weakness in tears even as he still struggles to shed them himself.

Grief, he’s learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump of your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.

He doesn’t think about it much, but there’s an itch in his teeth, and he’s moving closer when he should be carrying on, drawn toward golden skin and sad eyes.

The boy is pushed; he’s grabbed roughly by his clothing and shook like they’re expecting something to fall out, and he snarls back, tears himself away. His cheeks are stained a muted pink, his eyes bloodshot but determined, he tells them to stop. 

Stalking forward the final paces, Armitage fits himself between them and shoves.

The taller boy stumbles into his friends and Armitage growls, “He’s with me,” taking the boy behind him by the wrist and tugging, hard. 

The boy lets himself be dragged away, although his eyes widen in surprise and darting to where Armitage’s fingers have dug into his arm.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows they have to keep moving. The clambering of voices is fading into the background, and it’s dumb luck that they weren’t followed, that the others have decided not to retaliate. Even so, Armitage leads them until they’re at the picnic tables outside the office where Sloane usually holes up this time of day, where their shouts will be heard if the others decide to come for them.

It’s only then that Armitage lets go, dropping onto one of the table benches with a sigh.

“You’ll need to stop that,” Armitage says, casting a look at the tear tracks drying along the other boy’s face. “It’ll only get worse for you if you keep that up. They’ll just take more and more if they think they can.”

The boy scoffs at the remark, and to Armitage’s surprise, he doesn’t wipe the evidence of his sadness away. His eyes slit though and he glares at Armitage from where he remains standing.

“So, what? You’re saying I’m not allowed to cry now? Like I’ve got nothing to be sad about? Is that it?”

Ugly lines crease over the boy’s features.

“I’m just supposed to be good? This—” The boy smacks a hand against his chest, perhaps to make a point, or perhaps just wanting to hit something. “— _shit_ isn’t supposed to hurt so bad? Mom gone. Dad gone. It’s been a _six days_.”

These feelings are messy, and he’s not entirely sure why he’s getting involved. But he is, he does, Armitage points his finger back the way they came from, jabs it, and says, “Not in front of them, no.”

Dark eyes stare at him, contemplative, a little searching. The boy sways on his feet like he doesn’t know whether to take a seat or take his leave.

And Armitage finds himself praying to whatever higher power that he stays.

He’s heard that misery seeks company, but his misery had always been the solitary sort before now, _he doesn’t do this_ , but somehow he finds it in himself to listen, to sit with this boy, to give comfort.

“I know it hurts.” The admission comes more easily than he expects. “But if you’re going to survive this pain,” a mom dead, a dad gone, “You’re going to need to survive the pain that comes after too. This place will eat you up if you let it.”

Armitage thinks he finally understand what Sloane had been trying to tell him.

Leaves crunch beneath the boy’s feet as he approaches. He hooks a leg over the bench and sits.

“You’re trying to help me.” He says, a little accusatory, but mostly curious. “Why?”

Because maybe misery is too heavy a burden for one person to carry, he thinks. And maybe the only way to survive it is to share it. He doesn’t say that.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” is what he says. It’s not the truth, not Armitage’s truth at the very least, but it seems to be the right thing to have said because the sharp pinch of the boy’s mouth relaxes incrementally. 

He shifts, leans forward over the picnic table and offers Armitage his hand.

“I’m Poe.”

Armitage takes Poe’s hand.

“Armitage.”

I’m going to be okay, Armitage thinks as he shakes Poe’s hand.

Poe’s lips part revealing perfect white teeth, impossibly straight and gleaming. 

Because this person is okay.

Armitage smiles too, or as least what passes as a smile for him.

And maybe he’s next.

“Welcome to long-term.”


	3. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a day in the life.

 

About half the hour passes before Hux feels ready to leave BB alone. 

Regardless of how carefully he took the boy to the ground earlier, Hux can’t help but check BB for bruising. Dutifully, Hux asks for permission before each brush of his fingers over the boy’s too skinny arms, overly cautious and exceedingly relieved when he finds nothing. They talk some afterward; because Hux thinks it might help, and because BB engages well enough that Hux believes he’s proven right, mumbling back soft-spoken answers even as his eyelids begin to droop and his limbs go lax.

Eventually BB is lulled to sleep by the quiet back and forth, clutching fiercely at the bright orange fleece that he covers him.

He’s the picture of innocence, Hux thinks, standing to take his leave. Presents like an angel with his dark hair fanned out over his pillow, toffee-colored cheeks flushed with pink, features relaxed and open. 

Hux cracks the door and slips out.

The narrow hallway is already crowded with residents, filtering in and out. It would feel like chaos if it weren’t a familiar sight by now. There’s a pile up near the bathroom, and more filing out from the cafeteria. Hux dodges and weaves his way through the worst of the traffic, murmurs polite greetings as he goes, fond, familiar, if not a bit distracted.

By the time Hux strolls into his office, Finn is already sat in a plastic fold out by his desk, and he glances up at Hux, wide eyed and anxious faced. He’s subdued, and Hux can’t help but be reminded how panicked Finn had looked in the face of BB’s rage, how lost. Hux isn’t sure what to think of the man sitting in his office. He’s untested, that’s apparent. What else he is, Hux thinks, he’ll figure out in time.

Hux doesn’t say anything and makes his way to the file cabinet at the back, yanking open the third most drawer from the bottom, and plucking a red binder from it.

“These are the files on our kids, if you want to see what kind of crap they’ve been through,” Hux says, tossing the binder to Finn. “It’s a long read, so don’t worry if you don’t get through it all today. It stays in here, so feel free to visit it whenever you like.”

The other man is surprised but catches the binder easily enough, and takes a minute to leaf through a couple of pages curiously. Hux lets him, busies himself at the small kitchenette near the back of the room, and grabs the plastic water pistol from the basin. He unscrews the back and quietly fills the chamber.

“How long do they stay here?” Finn asks after some moments of silence. He turns in his chair, watching Hux curiously. “The kids?”

“Supposedly less than a year,” Hux replies, switching the water off and securing the cap. “But we have a few that have been here a little over three. We just keep them until the county figures out where they’re going to go next.”

His attention is pulled just past Finn for a moment, taken by a lanky figure he spots reclined on the rec room couch. Abandoning the pistol in the sink, Hux crosses the office in a few long strides and raps his knuckles harshly against the large window separating them. 

“Cassian!” Hux calls out. “Go brush your teeth!”

The boy makes an ugly face back at him, but jerks upright all the same. He throws himself off the couch and off in the direction of the bathrooms 

Hux turns back to Finn, ready to say more, but there’s documents stacked on the corner of his desk where the input tray sits, and instead Hux bends the first few at the corner, guessing at their contents. He adds the reports to the mental checklist he’s putting together in his head, his itinerary for the day stretching out to accommodate these additional tasks, and internally Hux groans.

Returning to the sink to retrieve his water pistol, Hux catches Finn’s eye. “Remember, you are not their parent. You are not their therapist. You are here to create a safe environment, and that’s it.”

From his chair, Finn nods, stilted and short, following Hux’s movement. “Got it.”

Hux plucks the pistol from the basin and tests the weight in his hands, wiping at the wetness gathered around the bottom. Orientating himself so that he can easily put some of his weight back against the counter, Hux continues, “And since you’re new, they’re going to try and test you, see what they can get away with. So just say no for a while.”

“No.” Finn repeats back, like he’s trying the word out for himself.

“Kind of got to be an asshole before you can be their friend.” Hux explains, pushing off with his hips and heading toward the office door.

“You’re going to be fine.” Hux offers, grasping the knob. “Community meeting is in five minutes. You can wait here and read up on our caseload until then.”

Finn nods again, and doesn’t say anything else.

Hux doesn’t either, and pushes through the doorway, water pistol cocked and at the ready.

“Community meeting is in five minutes!” He calls out, smirking as some of the younger residents giggle loudly at the water pistol by his side. They shuffle passed him toward the rec room, and Hux thanks them as they go.

He runs into Poe by the laundry, a stack of clean towels folded in the croak of the other man’s arm. They pause in each other’s space for a moment, Poe smirking like he’s got a secret and Hux curious despite himself.

“I got some Intel for you, if you want,” Poe says slyly.

“Go on.” Hux encourages mildly.

Poe makes a whole production of slanting his eyes down and into his periphery as though checking for eavesdroppers, and pitches voice low into a mock whisper. “It’s come to my attention that Bohdi could use some help getting out of bed.”

Hux allows the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Poe grins, and winks. “You go get him, killer.”

 

\---

 

It shouldn’t work, Poe and him. 

There are so many reasons it shouldn’t, too many.

But it does. Strangely and wonderfully, it does.

It’s not just that they work well together either. It’s that they’re seamless. They make it look easy even when it’s anything but.

Giving comfort is where Poe excels in particular. At work, Poe is the de facto big brother. He’s affable, undeniably witty and charming, and seems altogether the most emotionally intelligent member on the staff. He knows how to put the kids at ease and talk at their level. He distracts them with silliness when he needs to, always joking, always able to get the laugh.

Hux isn’t that. He’s empathetic sure, but where Poe is light, flexible, Hux is rigid. He’s the no-nonsense housemother: assertive, straightforward, pragmatic. A safety blanket, he is not. But kids needs boundaries too, routines, and a sense of normalcy, and that’s something Hux can do, a gap that he can fill. Hux is about logistics, boxing the raw edges into something with order. Believes that if you can organize the parts then maybe you’ll be able to understand the whole.

It’s a balancing act, but there’s a sense of confidence about them as they navigate the ever evolving and uncertain terrain. Both the products of care, they know what they’re doing more often than they don’t. It’s messy, and it’s complicated, and it doesn’t come anywhere near to approaching perfect, but for now, it’s enough.

They take it one day at a time.

 

\---

 

Times flies by, as it always seems to do in a whirlwind of spills, shouting matches, and sweat.

Like most days, Hux barely has time to breathe, running constantly from crisis to crisis. It starts with Finn referring to the residents as _underprivileged_ during his introductions, and as indirect and accidental as the remarks are, they all hear it, and Finn can’t take it back. Cassian puts the fear of God in him afterward, tells Finn with a growl in his voice to _watch his fucking mouth_ in future. Hux shuts it down before it can go any further, of course, throws out threats of a level drop, and sends Cassian off to his room to cool off.

Thankfully, outside recreation is uneventful, but the sun is high in the sky by the time they make it out and they’re without cover, so Hux walks around with a tube of sun blocker and demands they all use it or else return inside. Rey leads them in a spirited soccer scrimmage and bounces between the teams depending on the score. Poe joins in too, but only ends up making a fool of himself while Hux sits on the sideline cackling whenever the other man trips over his own feet. It’s Finn who turns out to be surprisingly agile and adept to the sport. He endears himself to the kids quickly after the first, second, and third goal, and by the end of the game, a giggling BB clings to his leg, squealing as he tries to slow Finn down, while the rest cheer as Finn nudges the ball in for a fourth goal and final goal.

Hux leads them back inside when the kids begin panting from the heat, and Rey liberates the powdered lemonade tub from the top shelf of the break room and Poe passes around Dixie cups filled to the brim.

Hux doesn’t stick around long enough to witness much more than that. The office phone rings, and Hux is told that his presence is needed at intake. He tells Poe where he’s going, and the other man grimaces knowingly. It’s the fourth time this month BB’s mother has violated her visitation plan, and it’s only a matter of time before the county decides to take action.

“You can’t do this again,” Hux pleads with her, watching the tears stream down the woman’s tired face. “They’ll strip parental rights. Is that what you want?”

She sobs, and Hux feels for her. She’s so young, so painfully devoted to her son, but her being here now; it doesn’t help anyone, not her, and most of all not BB.

“Go home,” he says. She wobbles on her feet, and Hux prays that she’s sober and just swept up in emotion and not anything that will violate her probation too. “Come back in four days, as per your court ordered visitation allows. Follow your visitation plan and they’ll increase your time.” He meets her eyes and repeats, “But for now, you need to go home.”

She leaves and Hux can breathe again.

He files a report because he has to, but he tries to be as kind as to her as he can be. He’s holed up in his office a while longer, sifting through the hill of paperwork neglected earlier, ink staining his fingers from cheap pens by the time he’s done.

It’s later, off shift and forcing the exhaustion down, that Hux finds Poe outside with the new hire, the weak afternoon sun swathing them in gold. 

Poe looks as though he’s burning through his second cigarette while Finn is anxiously making his way through what seems to be his first, perhaps ever. Hux catches him making a face as he inhales, and moves his mouth awkwardly as he breathes out.

“Whatever happened to that guy?” Finn asks, licking his lips like he’s trying to banish the taste of smoke from his palate.

“What guy?” Poe asks, looking up beneath his lashes, mouth agape where his cigarette hangs loosely from his lip.

Not wanting to intrude, Hux wordlessly makes his way over to where his bike is chained against the low fence that wraps loosely around the entryway. He bends to fiddle with his lock.

“The big kid that made you pee your pants.” Finn continues.

Hux hears Poe exhale slowly. “Baze.”

Gritting his teeth, Hux can’t keep himself from biting out the answer himself, pitching his voice loud enough for them to hear. “He ran away again, and then two days later someone found him dead in the bushes.” He stows his lock in the messenger bag he’s brought with him, and pulls his bike upright.

Finn turns to look at him, eyes widening in horror. “What?”

“That is the real ending to the story,” Hux says evenly, hoisting the messenger bag over his shoulder, before straddling the frame of his bike. He kicks off and glides over to where Poe and Finn are stood.

“I don’t like that part.” Poe mumbles quietly, and takes the cigarette from his lips. His expression is sobered, his mouth pinched around the corners. A muscle twitches in his jaw and he looks at Hux a little searching. “Sure you don’t wanna come with me today?”

Hux shakes his head. There’s some emotion swirling in him right now that he doesn’t want Poe to go near.

“I’m going to clear my head.” He says, jerking his gaze to Finn before offering him a nod. “That was a good first day, Finn.”

“Thank you.” Finn says just as Hux kicks off again.

Poe takes a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it away onto the pavement. 

He waves.

 

\---

 

It’s about an hour later when he finally shows up at the house.

Poe turns his head from where he’s standing by the stove when he notices him entering the kitchen and grins. “Hey, stinker, what took you so long?”

Hux pushes his bike further into the room. Something smells delicious, and Hux’s stomach rumbles softly. “What’s going on in here?” he asks.

“Well, I decided to make myself some chiles rellenos,” Poe tells him, a bit proudly, chest puffing outward, “Which means I also made homemade tortillas and my mom’s famous salsa.” He adopts a teasing lilt to his voice, and turns his gaze back to the stovetop. “Not that you’re getting any.”

“Looks like there’s enough for two,” Hux observes, abandoning his bike against the hallway wall, and getting close enough to press his chest along Poe’s back as he peeks over his shoulder.

Poe makes a face and scoffs, “Yeah, I doubt it.”

But Hux just hums and lets his chin rest on Poe’s shoulder, sliding his hands around the shorter man’s middle. “What do you need me to say here? I haven’t eaten in hours, and I’m not above begging.”

“God, you’re such a slut for home cooking.” Poe says, abandoning the wooden spoon on the counter to turn in the circle of Hux’s arms, sliding his own hands around Hux’s waist. Poe’s hands squeeze him lightly through his t-shirt, and Hux hums happily, enjoying the sensation.

And just when Hux believes they’re having a nice moment, Poe pinches Hux playfully in the side, laughing when Hux jolts, ruining it. “Where does it all go?”

“You carry it for the both of us, obviously.” Hux snipes back, annoyed, squirming when Poe pinches him again.

“Wow,” Poe says, dragging the word out longer than he needs to as he bullies a wriggling Hux back several paces, digging probing fingers in the sensitive spots along Hux’s sides. “Rude.”

“You’re not with me because I’m nice,” Hux bites out, struggling to catch his breath. Catching Poe’s wrists in his hands, Hux drags those searching fingers away, bringing them up and guiding them to rest atop his own shoulder, “Anyway, you look good.” He says, extending an olive branch, tracing coaxing fingertips over the skin still within his grasp. “You know that.”

Hux lets go then, but Poe gets the drift and wraps Hux more firmly in his arms, keeps him close.

“It bares repeating.” Poe murmurs, settling.

It’s later still, when they’re finished with dinner and lying languid in bed, dizzily content and lazy, that Hux feels settled himself, the last of the day’s tension drained from him. 

“Thank you for dinner.” Hux says, dragging his gaze across Poe’s nose, his mouth, his chin. “It was really nice.”

Across from him, Poe hums. “Anytime,” he says softly, an undercurrent of emotion straining his voice. “I like how you look when you’re fed.” Poe touches Hux’s cheek then with something like reverence, and Hux closes his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed.

Sometimes Poe gets like this, treats Hux like he’s fragile, because he likes to take care of people; likes to help them and ease them and he’ll run himself ragged to do so. Even though Hux can take care of himself, can do that and Poe besides, but Hux tilts his head towards the touch and sighs nonetheless.

“I’d like it if you’d ride home with me next time,” Poe says, voice too low, too strangely serious for the moment. “Don’t care if the staff knows.” 

He shuffles as close as he can get, lining their bodies up, their knees and hips and chest touching. He wraps a leg around Hux’s waist for good measure, holds Hux tight. “Everything’s stupid when you’re gone,” he mutters, letting their foreheads bump.

Some slumbering shadowy animal in the back of Hux’s mind twitches in protest. Just a pinprick, a small but distinct streak of unsettlement. _Don’t like this_ , he thinks at the sound of Poe’s distress. He opens his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to say it, but there are times when Hux can’t comprehend the trust Poe has in him, the extent to which he’ll peel himself open and allow Hux to glimpse at what’s inside, and no matter how adamant Poe is, the urge to question it never seems to fully subside.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Hux asks, pressing the words into the negative spaces, the dark corners where his skin is starved of Poe’s touch.

“You being serious right now?” Poe asks, amused, like it’s a weird question. He cranes his head back, only slightly; just enough to catch the expressions Hux fights so desperately to hide.

“Mm-hmm.”

Poe bumps his chin against the top of Hux’s crown. “Because you are the weirdest, most beautiful person that I’ve ever met in my whole entire life.”

He rubs the back of Hux’s neck, coaxes his eyes to his, and leans down to kiss him. Hux lets him.

“I love you,” Hux says, once they’ve parted. “For whatever it’s worth.”

“Say it again.”

It’s heartbreaking, how much Poe needs to hear those three little words.

“I love you,” Hux repeats, fondness making him indulgent, even as the intimacy begins to wear on him. He wants to reset the momentum, and move them away from this particular edge they’ve wandered to. “Even if I don’t always like you,” he adds quickly, huffs more like, even if it’s just for show, and fidgets in Poe’s grasp just to sell the lie. 

It seems to do the trick.

Something shifts in Poe’s expression and his eyes are swept away by some different emotion.

It happens like this sometimes. Like flipping a switch.

This sadness Poe feels, it comes and goes, and it when it comes it claws at Poe’s feet, takes him to this place that can be impossible to reach if you don’t know where to look. And for whatever reason, Hux brings him back.

“You don’t find this sexy?” Poe asks, squeezing a little tighter. “These are my signature moves here.”

“Then you might want to rethink your technique,” Hux replies tartly, but he slides his hand into Poe’s hair anyway, cupping the back of his head and holding him close.

“You’re mocking me, but I’m serious.” Poe puts a hand on Hux’s waist and strokes his foot up and down Hux’s leg. “I wanna do things to you.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“Well then.”

“Kiss me,” Poe says. It sounds like a demand, but it’s said with a grin that makes Hux’s cheeks warm.

He meets Poe somewhere in the middle, and they slot their mouths together, and Poe skillfully pulls all the blissful little sounds from him, has Hux gasping and breathless in no time at all. 

“You still don’t like me?” Poe asks, drawing back.

Poe’s lips are redder than usual, or perhaps Hux is just imagining they are.

“No,” Hux says, trying his best to sound convincing and failing utterly.

Poe doesn’t appear convinced at all, grinds his hips down and laughs when Hux’s own hips jerk upward in response. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“You’re awful,” Hux tells him sincerely.

“You love it.” Poe says, kissing him on the nose. On the cheek. On the jaw, again.

Hux pushes him away, pins Poe down with one hand planted on his chest, looms over him. Poe, the damn fool, is still grinning, like he has the upper hand in all this. And in many ways, he does, because when it comes to Poe, Hux has always been a fool, has always wanted him to have exactly what he wants.

Poe’s eyes are impossibly dark beneath the muted lighting. They switch places, and Poe soothes him with gentle hands as he opens Hux up, coaxes him to looseness before sliding in.

Hux grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to let go.

Once he had thought that being fucked, wanting to be fucked, made him less.

It doesn’t, but it’s easy for him to forget from time to time. Sometimes he has to make an effort to remember. He has to ease himself in.

Poe helps. Keeps him present, in his body, in his head. 

He reminds Hux to breathe.

 


	4. Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole thing could have started any number of ways, when Armitage thinks back on it. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe not.

 

The whole thing could have started any number of ways, when Armitage thinks back on it. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe not. Actually, the more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. But either way, it happens like this:

They shake hands on a picnic bench, exchanging a few quiet words and shy flashes of teeth.

It’s kind of a lovely moment Armitage can admit if he is being honest.

Poe is interesting, and Armitage feels a spark of curiosity as he studies him.

He doesn’t get long. 

It would have been so nice if Sloane hadn’t rounded the corner when she does, going bug-eyed and slack jawed at the sight of them.

Armitage feels the blush travel through his cheeks when he spots her, feels Poe loosens his grip and pull away.

Across the alcove, Sloane gawks at them, and it’s long enough to make Armitage’s anxiety hum uncomfortably to life. And when Sloane does look away, she doesn’t say anything, which feels just as damning. Just palms the sweat from her forehead before wiping it carelessly onto her jeans with a slight shake of her head. It’s dramatic as all hell, is what it is, and Armitage thinks the infernal woman must be doing it on purpose.

When she’s finished, she says, somewhat flatly, “Well, this makes my job easier.”

Whatever flashes over his face must be speak to his confusion because Sloane follows up the statement smartly with, “Poe will be taking the spare in your room.” She looks between them again, this time with a smirk. “How fortunate the two of you have already met.”

How fortunate, indeed.

 

\---

 

They’ve been sharing a room for nearly a month when Poe approaches his bed one night for a favor.

He’s all toothy smile and sparkling eyes, and it’s enough to send Armitage’s head spinning. Not enough to distract from the way Poe’s fingers pick at the sleeve of his nightshirt, nor the way Poe’s lip catches nervously between his teeth, but it’s a close call. 

It’s the forced lightness to his tone, that does it, and it sets Armitage unexpectedly on edge.

“I was never any good at applying it myself,” Poe says, with a self-deprecating sort of laugh that Armitage can’t help but cringe at. Poe produces a small blue vial from his pocket and deposits it hesitantly into Armitage’s palm. Then, uncharacteristically self-conscious, “My mom used to do that part for me.”

It feels like a moment in which he’s supposed to know how to act, but that is in no way the case and so he feels woefully unprepared. He’s never had friends. There’s no roadmap for this kind of thing and he fumbles clumsily for a proper response.

“You can’t be mad if I mess it up.” He says finally, and it’s the perfect tone of benign and non-committal he had been hoping to strike. He gives himself a pat.

It must pass muster all around because Poe reassures him gratefully that he’ll do fine, before flashing another one of those wide, blinding smiles that seem to warm Armitage from the inside out. He climbs onto the bed and holds his hand out, his nerves seemingly forgotten. 

Armitage isn’t used to this, this business of people smiling at him. It feels like a shock coursing through him, every nerve in his body lighting up on cue at something as simple as a glimpse of teeth.

He twists off the top and is careful to bring the wet brush down to Poe’s nail slowly. Brushing a layer delicately onto Poe’s pinky finger, he tentatively meets Poe’s gaze in order to gauge the quality of his work, and the other boy just hums contently, and so Armitage drags another strip of paint across the nail.

It’s scary in it’s own way. Scary because it’s new. But Poe guides him through it with a soft quirk of his lips, and the steadying lull of his breath as he worked.

“You’re going to need to repaint these,” Armitage says later, inspecting the blue polish haphazardly drying on more skin than nail. “Remove this disaster and start over.”

Poe noisily hushes him, looking down at his fingers with an undeniable fondness. “No, no, see. It’s artistry.” He flares his fingers out and hums happily. “Coloring outside the lines because you can’t be contained.”

It’s a ridiculous estimation of his efforts and Armitage rolls his eyes to express as much, “You’re being stupid.”

“Sounds better than what you said, anyway.” Poe returns with a grin that sends Armitage head straight back into a tailspin. Armitage wants to blame the lightheadedness on fatigue; it’s late, they should both be asleep, but he can’t deny what’s right in front of him. He can’t deny that Poe has this effect on him. Makes him weak. Makes him want things he’s never had.

The smile that affixes itself to his face is awkward and doesn’t fit quite right yet. Armitage thinks he might be showing too many teeth.

If he’s going to keep Poe around he’ll need to work on it.

 

\---

 

The heat becomes unbearable as the months roll on, hotter than Armitage remembers it ever being before.

They’re walking across the yard on their way to the library. It’s one of those rare occasions where he’s dressed down, in nothing more than a tank top and some loose sweats, a book in his hand. He’s uncomfortable with so much skin on display, but with the heat as it is there isn’t much of a choice.

Beside him, Poe wears his hair long, curls tucked behind his ears, and Armitage can see the bones poking out from under his skin where the v of his shirt dips low. 

He smiles beatifically when Armitage makes eye contact with him, his whole being seeming to radiate delight at the sight of him. 

It’s inexplicable. It’s _endearing_.

Armitage feels like a snake charmed by a mouse.

Armitage swallows reflexively, and fights back a wave of tension.

Poe looks different from every boy Armitage has ever met. Almost fey, but not quite. There’s something undeniable masculine about the set of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, but his eyelashes are long and look painted dark, his lips plush and berry red. Underneath Poe’s runners, Armitage knows his toes are robin’s egg blue, and can glimpse that same blue highlight at the tips of his fingers. 

Poe doesn’t think to hide the flash of color, doesn’t think to curl his fingers inward. Poe doesn’t think to be embarrassed, which is admirable, but Armitage supposes it’s also why the others are threatened. Why what happens next is to be expected.

Armitage spots the group of boys by the border wall that runs parallel to the yard almost as soon as they step onto the courts. The boys are speaking in sharp voices, mouths slanted, and biting out words curled with laughter. Their eyes are on Poe, on his face, gazes trailing to his nails. Armitage hears the words, but he doesn’t understand them.

But Poe must understand, because suddenly he’s taking steps to them and spitting out a string of harshly spoken words in rapid Spanish as he goes, getting right up into their space. Armitage is close behind and watches as the huddle of boys growl and hiss at each other like feral cats. It escalates from there and a moment later Poe is doubled over, eyes wide as the other boy digs his fist into his roommate’s stomach. Armitage drops his book. 

He’s up.

Out here, an attack on Poe is an attack on him, and it takes Armitage only a moment to tackle the instigator to the ground. He wrestles him down, gets his knees atop the boy’s chest and pins him where he likes.

In a fight, Armitage is cruel, and he knows it. He hits a little too hard, more just to hurt than to defend. He throws a punch, and then another, and then another. He tells himself it’s some sort of cosmic karma, vindication owed and paid in the collision of fists and the knocking of teeth. He tells himself it’s necessary. This is what it’ll take to keep them away. It’ll stick if he just pushes hard enough. 

Poe doesn’t get lost in it like he does. Must not feel like he’s owed for the pain dealt to him. Must not realize the cost of their bodies. Armitage can hear Poe’s shouts in the background, and doesn’t fight it when there’s suddenly hands hauling him backward.

“Cool it,” is hissed into his ear with harsh exhale of breath, and from this close Armitage can breathe in Poe’s scent. It helps him calm down, if only just slightly.

The other boy’s friend rights him too, peeling him off the ground in a fumble of limbs, pulling him back even as the boy in his arms spits blood at Armitage’s feet.

Armitage wants to growl at the treatment, would have too if not for the bite of Poe’s nails digging into the sensitive pressure points on his forearm. It’s then that Armitage notices Sloane’s dogged approach from the office buildings. 

“We’re all right m’am.” Poe tries futilely, laying the charm as thick as he’s able around the wheeze in his voice. “Just a little disagreement.”

But Sloane isn’t blind; she sees the blood puddled on the court, red flecked along the other boy’s chin.

Armitage studies his work too, pride and vindication filling his chest.

There’s blood on his trainers, which is a shame. The other boy’s sneakers are unexpectedly spotless.

But he can fix that.

Armitage opens his mouth and spits.

 

\---

 

It’s only later, elbow deep in porcelain and toilet bowl cleanser, that Armitage regrets his enthusiasm just slightly. Between the piss stains and the soggy wads of paper wedged down the pipes, it becomes abundantly clear how abhorrently disgusting the other boys are, and his patience fractures.

He’s just about fuming when he enters his third stall of the day and finds it in about as good of a state as the rest of them.

“ _Animals_.” Armitage hisses, lip curling back as the stench hits him.

He turns away from it, only to catch a glimpse of Poe by the sinks, nose wrinkled in a similar state of disgust and lips pressed thin as he glares at a mysterious and awful looking stain on the floor. Armitage watches for a moment as Poe drags his scouring pad roughly across the tile, grunting at the effort.

Their eyes meet, and Armitage thinks this is where Poe will chime in, calm him down maybe. But that’s not what happens. Instead, Poe returns his gaze to the sudsy mess on the floor with a cool indifference. He sniffs loudly. 

“Should have thought it through before jumping into the damn fight then.” Poe’s voice is unusually cold, and the hint of a sneer that curls around edges of his words gives Armitage pause. 

“He hit you,” Armitage says slowly, confused. He twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt, unsure of what else to say. He’s reacting poorly to the displeasure in the other boy’s tone, knows from experience that displeasure means consequences, and he’s praying that he’s misunderstood. “I wasn’t going to let him get away with touching you like that, Poe.”

Across the room Poe bristles, and Armitage’s gut tightens uncomfortably.

“He hit _me_ , Tage.” Poe snaps. Hair falls into his eyes as he continues to glare at the tile. “That wasn’t your fight. You didn’t have to get involved at all if you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t have to get involved?” Armitage repeats back dully. It hadn’t occurred to him that Poe might be cross. And now that it is quite clearly the case, his first instinct is to be offended even as dread curls in his gut, all sharp thorns and agony.

“Because you were handling things so well?” He asks, feeling his face heat uncomfortably. “How’s your stomach by the way?” He continues, falsely pleasant, noticing the other boy shift in discomfort. “Tender?”

“Loosing privileges for a week isn’t handling things well.” Poe says, a frown pulling at his lips when he finally looks up. “Over a sucker punch. You knocked Rafael’s tooth loose!”

“Sounds like I handled your mess, and as I didn’t see you exactly jumping at the chance, I would have thought you’d be grateful. _Silly me_.” Armitage spits back, frustration getting the better of him.

He hates this, doesn’t like fighting with Poe despite being willing to pick a fight with near everyone else, so after the words escape him he gives the other boy his back, returning to miserable task they’ve been dealt. The toilet water sloshes dangerous close to the edge of the bowl as he gives the porcelain a particularly vicious scrub, but he keeps at it. He needs to keep at it or else he’ll say something he won’t mean, something that might hurt.

Behind him, Poe makes a noise in the back of his throat; a long suffering sound, like he thinks Armitage is unforgivably dense. “I’m not pissed because I didn’t get a chance to throw a punch, you fucking loon,” Poe huffs. “I was scared, Tage. I’ve never seen you like that. You were _unhinged_.”

“You think I overreacted?” Armitage hisses despite himself, whipping his head back around to level an incredulous look at Poe. “Are you serious?”

But Poe doesn’t back down. If anything he puffs up, and looks down at Armitage like he’s something small and ridiculous. It takes everything in him not to flinch at such a look. But it’s too much to bear, especially now, and for a second time Armitages forces his eyes away.

“I get it,” Poe starts, letting his weight settle against the stall as he peers down at Armitage, exhaustion written in the curve of his body. The stall creeks softly in protest. “Rafael is a dick, and I was about ready to hit him too, but he was down and you were still throwing punches even after you were covered in the guy’s blood.” 

Armitage uncaps the bottle of cleanser on the floor, upends it over the water, and squeezes.

“Armitage, listen to me.”

Armitage drops the bottle, now empty back where he found it. He reaches for the handle and watches as the water turns into a translucent swirl of blue as the solution disappears down the pipes.

“You went too far. Don’t you get that?”

“Oh please.” Armitage scoffs, even as his heart pounds in his chest. He wipes his hand on his the knee of his pants and stands. “Like there’s such a thing.” He pushes past Poe and goes to the cart, grinding his teeth as he goes “You’d have to be incredibly naive if you for one second deluded yourself into thinking you’re safe in this place, Poe.” 

“Well, not to sound ungrateful or whatever, but it’s not your job to protect me,” Poe barks, body going ridged as he tracks Armitage’s movement across the room. “You should worry more about yourself. They could have thrown you in juvie for that shit, you ever think about that? Has it even occurred to you how much worse you could have made things for yourself?”

Armitage is tired of being wrong. He’s tired of being overlooked and misunderstood, even when he’s _trying so fucking hard_ to do the right thing. He wants Poe to be on his side again. He wants this conversation to be done. 

“Before today, no one’s so much as touched you, right?” Armitage points out, forcing his voice to stay steady. “That’s not luck, Poe. It takes work. It takes intimidation.”

Poe’s makes a noise of confusion in response, and squints at him like he’s trying to parse the words, but all Armitage can think is that he’s being needlessly obtuse. 

“Sloane can’t watch you every hour of the day.” Armitage snaps. “And when have you seen any of those other morons doing anything other than mixing powdered fruit punch and staring at the clock? The last thing they want to do is get involved in our shit.” A mirthless chuckle escapes his mouth. “Kids like Rafael aren’t scared of staff anyway, kids like Rafael are scared of _me_.”

Poe blinks in surprise, clearly thrown by the comment. “What are you saying?”

“They forgot their place, but they won’t forget tomorrow. They’ll remember you’re off limits, or they’ll have to deal with me.” 

Poe’s eyebrows lift. “Tage, that’s insane.”

“You don’t have to like it, and you don’t have to thank me.” Armitage continues, with an empty sort of resignation because Poe still doesn’t seem to understand, and if he doesn’t understand, then what’s the point? “But I need you around, and I’ll do what I need to keep you.”

“You don’t…” Poe begins, struggling with his words for a second, looking frustrated. “I’m not—”

But Poe doesn’t manage to force any more words out, not before they’re abruptly interrupted by a voice behind them.

“This is not an opportunity for you to chat.”

They turn to see Sloane in the doorway, her arms crossed. “You understand that, right? That this is punishment?”

Poe nods, but his eyes dart toward Armitage before he goes back to the floor. They seem softer than before, less contentious and more thoughtful. 

Armitage looks to Sloane, feels himself shrink under her glare, and quickly follows suit.

Slinking back to the stalls, Armitage sinks to the floor, forcing his mind blank, and scrubs.

 

\---

 

Afterward, when they’re back in their room, alone, Poe bumps his shoulder with his and says, his voice soft, contrite, “I’m sorry.”

Relieved and surprised, Armitage is quick to agree, “Me too.”

“I need you too, you know?” Poe says quietly, tipping his head up to regard Armitage from under thick lashes. “If something happened to you, I’d be fucked up, so when I see you getting into fights like that, it scares me, okay? They take kids out of here for things like that. I don’t want that for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Armitage says again, an ache settling in his chest when he thinks about Poe being worried about him.

Poe nods thoughtfully. “I just want you safe,”

“I just want you safe too.” Armitage replies, diverting his gaze down to the floor. “I know I’m acting stupid, but it scares me the way the others pick on you. When I think about what could happen if I weren’t around…” He wouldn’t usually say things like this, but it’s too hard to keep in, and they spill out messily. He sucks in a breath, “I can’t lose you just yet.”

Poe is staring at him again, that quizzical expression back on his face. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“You think I’m lying?” Armitage asks stiffly, mildly annoyed at the scrutiny.

“You wouldn’t.” Comes so easily out of Poe’s mouth and it relaxes some of the tension in Armitage’s body. “And I’m not going anywhere,” Poe adds quickly.

“Good.”

“You— you really don’t care? That I’m…” It’s here that Poe’s voice comes out slightly strangled. “That I’m not like other boys?”

“I don’t like other boys, Poe. I like you.”

A smile breaks across Poe’s face like a sunset. “Oh.” He says like he can’t believe his luck, “I like you too.”

There’s a flip in his stomach, something between butterflies and a sudden drop. The words register in his mind, but admittedly, he has trouble comprehending them.

 _He likes me too._

Several thoughts fly into Armitage’s head all at once, thoughts like _how_ and _why_ and _shit_. 

Because this is a problem. 

This is a major, catastrophic, world-ending problem. Not because Poe likes him, but because Armitage is pretty sure he likes Poe too. 

Poe bites his lip then and with everything else that’s going on, it’s too much.

He’s so pretty when he does that, Armitage thinks stupidly, his brain choosing this moment to be loud and vocal about this sudden and most inconvenient revelation. He tries not to stare and fails miserably and is only stopped short of feeling relieved that he’s avoided being caught outright when the other boy’s eyes furrow knowingly and Armitage is forced to avert his gaze entirely.

Poe’s hands rise towards his face and stop just shy of touching his jaw. They settle on his shoulders at the last moment, and Armitage feels the gentle squeeze of the other boy’s fingers along the skin not covered by his shirt. He suppresses a shiver.

Poe looks at him adoringly. “Kriff, you’re actually being serious.”

Armitage ducks his head down, eyes focused on the toes of Poe’s trainers, and something about his pleased little exhale feels inevitable.

He’s so lovely, Armitage thinks helplessly.

A shy smile steals across Armitage’s face and he tries to hide it quickly, mortified.

And it’s in that moment that Poe closes the space between them, and kisses his cheek, and it shouldn’t feel so silly, but it does. Armitage can hear the hitch in his breath, feels the sudden tightness in his chest. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion for a moment, and it’s like Armitage’s brain is a step behind.

“Was that okay?” Poe asks, a new timbre of strained concern running through his voice.

And even though the feelings rushing through him are confusing and intense, it’s more than okay. He feels as though something has clicked into place and has the unusual urge to express gratitude, but he bites his tongue before these strange, swirling thoughts can make themselves known.

Armitage nods tightly, and manages an approximate of a smile.

He needs a minute, or an hour or year to just understand what the hell just happened.

His entire body shudders when he feels Poe’s hands move and the feather-like touch lands on his cheek.

And doesn’t have time before Poe touches his face properly, his palm stroking down his cheek and then softly up again, fingers sliding into his messy fringe and pushing them away from his forehead. His scalp tingles where the fingers rub against it, sending warmth and pleasant buzzes through his spine.

When Poe cradles his face in his heads, something breaks in Armitage— and whatever it is, it fragments, digs painfully into his lungs making it hard to breathe. Poe’s palms feels amazingly warm on Armitage’s skin. He knows he doesn’t deserve these gentle touches, but he craves them so much he couldn’t stop himself from letting happen if it killed him.

Their lips slide together timidly the first time, and then with more confidence as they go. 

Not long after they start up a good rhythm, Armitage breaks free, overwhelmed and gasping for air. Not one to idle, Poe reaches down and catches one of his hands, raising it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to his fingers.

And Armitage gives a little hiccupping laugh, sick with the realization that he can never, ever let Poe go.

 


End file.
